I cautious scanned my little life
I winnowed what would fade
From what would last till heads like mine
Should be a-dreaming laid.
I put the latter in a barn,
The former blew away—
I went one winter morning,
And lo! my priceless hay
Was not upon the “scaffold”,
Was not upon the “beam”,
And from a thriving farmer
A cynic I became.
Whether a thief did it—
Whether it was the wind—
Whether Deity ‘s guiltless
My business is to find.
So I begin to ransack—
How is it, Heart, with thee?
Art thou within the little barn
Love provided thee?
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